WAR OF THE WITCHES


So it would seem that
The Eternal Tradition of
Trigesmestes Triumphant's
Undying Mother Coven's
Acting Lord High Summoner
had been caught

sleeping with the new
Summer Priestess of
The Thirteenth Sacred
Circle of Descendants
of The Dianic Tribes

whose Founding Elder
known as either Mistress
Rhiannon Cerridwen d'Avalon
or Our Lady of Lobelia
had just opened up her
brand new full-service
Occult Emporium

which had quickly begun
stealing customers from
the rare book trade of
The Grand Mystic Lodge
of Thelema and Osiris
in Willful Etherea which

while trolling about for
experienced virgins at
the Horseless Tourneys of
the New Amsterdam Barony
of Ye Medieval Courtly
Revival Society and
Brewer's Guild had

inadvertently recruited
the debutante daughter
of the aforementioned
Summoner's ex-wife's
new magical partner
in violation of the

True Signatories of Secret
Hidden Agreements Among
Unknowable Fellowships
In Perpetual Silence
(Copyright 1973 Starry
Wisdom Publishing Ltd)

resulting in the wholesale
migration of veteran
Seekers After the Light
from the Undying's First
Assyrian Temple down in
Brooklyn Heights over to
the Guild's Royal Hall in
the tasting rooms of J&B
Beer and Wine Distributors

		* * *

So here I stand
before a big iron kettle
burning up perfectly good
asafetida and quietly
observing a serious room

packed with
Witches Wizards Druids Ceremonialists
Kabbalists Quabbalists Gardnerians
Alexandrians British Traditionalists
Welsh Traditionalists American Welsh
Traditionalists Irish Traditionalists
Irish Nationalists Fairies Pharaohs
Solitaries Eclectics Collectics Dianics
Odinists (on opposite sides of the room)
Rosicrucians Illuminati Freemasons
Psychic Readers Psychic Vampires Psychic
Vampire Hunters Thelemites Cannanites
Golden Dawn Magi Santerians Voudon
Priests Brujas Brujos Berserkers Rune
Workers Grokkers Shamans Enochians
Pythagorans and Cthulans plus three
cats a pair of Burmese pythons and
a renegade Jesuit in black leather
to whom I haven't said a word

most of them decked out
in sorcerer-type threads
that weave cotton and jute
into shadow and dance but
also catch fire real easy

and long pointed hoods
not to be worn in Harlem
in which you can hide
your face your secrets
your shoulder length hair
your Clark Kent clothes

(while the rest of
Saturday Night New York
flaunts tight-ass Levi's
or if you prefer
disco shirts radiating
silver Elvis sequins)

and doing what looks
to be some sort of
close order drill
with a collection of
broadswords rapiers
daggers dirks letter 
openers shillelaghs
sharpened sticks and
at least one stiletto
in a room just big
enough to duck in

(although claiming
nobody has ever used
them to cut anything
denser than a ghost
with slow reflexes)

and calling upon
the Powers that Be to
give some other folks in
some other crowded room
just what they deserve

Now when most folks
get this riled up
they might load up
old Bessie with birdshot

or pour sawdust into
an automobile gas tank
or gather up a few of
the boys on the corner
and go to it

or they hire out their
uncle's Mafia lawyer who
runs a rent-a-judge shop
out of his rumpus room

or overdub the offender's
Joni Mitchell tapes with
Sister Sledge tracks

or pray quickly and alone
that Jesus does to them
everything that He
ever preached against
just this once please 

Personally I had arrived
hoping for a few folk songs
a steaming cup of chamomile
maybe a nice backrub

and a clarion call to
Love One Another in
Peace and Harmony by
the Holy Names of
Our Lady and Lord

But no
we have to drag in the
Three-Fold Law Of Karma
that ancient English rite

spend Saturday night in
a smoke filled room
with no pool table
keeping up our spirits
with cookies and jug wine

whilst calling upon the
wrath of ten thousand
Ancient And Doubtless
Very Busy Deities to
settle a few scores

all in the name of
some arcane secret
or another that my
fellow avengers can't
bring themselves to
tell me just yet

while Five floors down
a troop of Hare Krishnas
hawking books to the weave
of evening pedestrians
dances past a sax player

then trading hellos with
two seminary students
eating cheeseburgers and
debating the death of God

as two ravens soar overhead
lost between the worlds
of the Pine Barrens
and Long Island Sound

screeching our mysteries
for all the world to hear
bearing upon ebony wings
the corpses of dead tired
Pagans

Thanks Mister Eyepatch
I'll take your advice
lower my hat over my brow
slip out the back door
and spent the night alone
by the slippery light of
Our Lady of Lunatics

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This poem is from On Pagan Roads Copyright © 2004 David Arv Bragi